


a place to sell your providence

by Ryodan



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Denial, Genei Ryodan | Phantom Troupe - Freeform, Hunter X Hunter Big Bang, Light Angst, M/M, Minor violence and gore, Post-Chimera Ant Arc (kind of), drunk makeouts, typical Troupe shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-09
Updated: 2016-06-09
Packaged: 2018-07-13 23:51:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7143572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ryodan/pseuds/Ryodan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Feitan, Phinks, and friends kill bugs, steal things, consume ungodly volumes of alcohol, and learn the true meaning of friendship (and maybe something more than that).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part I: The One With The Shitty Animal Relics

**Author's Note:**

> Oh my gosh, I still can't believe I finished this! This was a labor of love over a period of about a month, because I am an awful procrastinator. Special thanks to my absolutely amazing beta, kikyo-shot-first on tumblr, for keeping me motivated and for their super-helpful advice and for generally being really great! Also thanks to Caprichoso for reading through the whole thing and helping me with way more than they needed to. Both of you are lovely people. Please keep doing what you are doing <3
> 
> And now onto the actual fic! I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it ^^

Feitan is not at all sad to leave behind the smoking landfill he once called home. If anything, he is grateful to not have to deal with the ridiculous bureaucracy that calls itself the city council. Why did a fucking landfill have a council, anyways? At least the incompetents knew the Phantom Troupe was not to be trifled with, especially now that it has the blood of once-loyal Meteor City residents on its hands.

They’d departed Meteor City immediately after defeating Zazan. There was no reason for them to stay, with the unpleasantness of the city’s elders and the marked lack of Chrollo to force them to deal with old acquaintances that might be useful. Feitan knows the landfill was their origin, the place where they came together for the first time, and he feels more loyalty to the trash heaps and ramshackle buildings than any other given city, but it didn’t feel like home. The Troupe had been to far too many places and met (and usually killed) too many people for him to feel like he belonged.

The smog constantly rising from the shell of the city, amplified by the smoke still rising from the remains of Zazan’s makeshift castle, fades into the distance. It blends into the harsh desert sky like ink spilled in water, rising and eventually dissipating. 

He tucks his hands in his pockets and glances around at their little party. Tiny Kalluto, with a hilariously solemn look plastered on their childish face; Shalnark, showing a laughing Shizuku something on his phone; Bonolenov, taciturn and bandaged like always; and Phinks, his partner and oldest companion. Were these his friends? Feitan wished he knew. They had survived the chain user, the Chimera Ants, but in the end they were still murderers and thieves, and murderers and thieves cannot risk themselves for friendship.

“Hey, danchou. What are you thinking so hard about?” The familiar deep voice snaps him out of his thoughts.

Without turning to Phinks, he replies, “How do you even know I’m thinking? And don’t call me that.”

“You’re not wearing your weird bandana thing. I can see everything you’re thinking on your face, and so can everyone else.”

Feitan’s horror must be cleanly evident -- there was a reason he always covered his face -- because Phinks throws his head back and cackles. “I’m kidding. You know I’m the only one who’s known you long enough to be able to tell.”

He wishes more than ever he’d been able to find something, anything to replace his mask. He turns his head away from Phinks, hiding his reddening cheeks and desperately searching for something to change the subject with. “Whatever. What do you think Nobunaga’s having trouble with?”

Phinks doesn’t seem to notice his distress. “It could be anything. Nobunaga isn’t the best, even with Machi there to think for him.” Feitan merely hums in agreement, and Phinks continues. “Hey, Shal, did Nobu tell you what he wants help with?”

Shalnark looks up from his conversation with Shizuku. “No, he didn’t. We were just saying it must be bad if he wants help.”

Shizuku tilts her head, expression devoid of emotion besides the usual thoughtfulness, and adds, “You know Nobunaga. His pride normally wouldn’t let him do that. He lacks self-preservation instincts too, so Machi must have forced him to make that call.”

Phinks grunts an affirmation in response and turns back to face the empty wasteland in front of them. Sunlight glimmers off the endless stretches of sand, the uneven particles reflecting light like countless tiny mirrors, lending a stolen glow to the otherwise drab landscape. There is no end to the desert in sight, and the heaping towers of Meteor City have long since vanished behind their little party. “We can worry about that when we get there. What should we do now, danchou?”

Feitan does not miss the way his partner’s voice picks up a teasing tone on the last word. He does, however, choose to ignore it and preserve his dignity. “We should find a place to spend the night. There’ll be somewhere we can steal supplies from soon.” He makes sure to look pointedly at Shizuku, still adorned in that ridiculous white robe a good couple of feet too long for her. Involuntarily, his gaze wanders to Phinks, too, who is still wearing nothing but a tank top, showing off tanned skin and toned muscle.

Luckily, Phinks doesn’t notice. Instead, he stretches his arms above his head and laces his hands behind his head, showing off his bare arms even more. Phinks is built solidly and powerfully, the polar opposite of Feitan’s skinny frame and wiry limbs. Harsh desert sunlight shines off his hair, creating a shining halo effect despite the usual dirty blonde color.

Feitan’s lips tilt upwards involuntarily. Phinks has literally torn people apart with his bare hands, and the idea of him associated with anything Biblical is laughable. Unfortunately, he is not lucky enough to avoid detection this time. The subject of his amusement turns to him. “What’s so funny, danchou?” Phinks asks, only mildly irritated with him.

“Wouldn’t you like to know, baichi,” Feitan replies with the same teasing emphasis on his chosen insult. Phinks is not as good of a judge of character as Shizuku, despite her comical chronic memory loss, or even him. Chances are his partner, in all his dense glory, will not catch onto his illicit thoughts.

Phinks scoffs in return. “Man, you’re always going to be a little shit, aren’t you,” he retorts, more of a statement than a question.

“You like it.”

“I’m still here, aren’t I?”

“You’re a stubborn idiot, that’s why.”

“Fucking rude,” Phinks snarls, lunging for Feitan. He barely dodges the headlock Phinks is trying to restrain him in, sidling a couple steps away and walking on unfazed. Unfortunately, this only seems to annoy his aggressor more. This time, when Phinks goes for the headlock, Feitan is not so lucky. He lashes out with a foot, connecting with something and earning a grunt from somewhere above him and to the left. The arm around his throat loosens enough for him to wriggle loose.

“Now that was rude.”

“I’ll show you rude!” Phinks reaches for Feitan again, and Feitan slides past the outstretched arms, aiming for the solar plexus pressure point. Phinks is by no means slow, however, and catches Feitan’s arm, dropping him into the sand. Feitan refuses to concede. What kind of interim boss would he be then, losing to an oversized idiot in a hideous headdress and fucking robes? He grabs Phinks’s leg, pulling him down into the sand with him.

The others don’t even seem to register their scuffle, save for Shizuku, who turns to Shalnark and comments, not even bothering to lower her voice, “So when do you think the wedding will be?”

Feitan looks up, startled, and Phinks flips him over into the sand again. “What did you say?” he hisses at Shizuku.

“It was a joke, danchou. When people act that close and bicker like you two do, it is amusing to say such things. Especially when their reactions are like yours,” she answers, face perfectly neutral.

Feitan does his best to ignore the fact that Phinks, whom he has decided is objectively quite attractive, is sitting on him. Really, he does. Unfortunately, blood rushes to his face anyways, eliciting another deep-throated chuckle from Phinks, which Shalnark and Shizuku join in on promptly.

Feitan flops his head back onto the grainy surface and looks at the sky. This is going to be a long job.

***

They reach a decently-sized city at the end of the wasteland just as the sun slips under the horizon in a blaze of red and orange and yellow, stained purple and blue around the edges and converting the sand into molten lava where the rays land.

“Well then, boss, what should we do?” Shalnark breaks the silence that has fallen over them with the dusk.

Feitan is definitely not used to being called that. “Let’s find an abandoned building. We can steal supplies and prepare for the morning.”

The old factory district south of the city is empty and reminiscent of a ghost town. The ash-darkened, hulking shells of burned-out buildings tower into the starless sky, blocking out what little moonlight was present. Seemingly impenetrable shadows lurk in every alleyway, and at one point a pure black stray cat darts into their path. The darkness hanging in the air feels like a second skin to Feitan.

A quick glance to his right reveals that Phinks does not seem to agree. He is far more fidgety than usual, as if looking for some hidden danger. Phinks had always been more comfortable in daylight, Feitan thinks. Odd for a spider, really. Shizuku looks perfectly calm, even comfortable. She always had been like him, comfortable in the absence of light. He knows Shalnark is fine anywhere as long as he has his phone, and Bonolenov and Kalluto seem completely unfazed. Of course, the latter two never seemed to be fazed by much, with Kalluto’s inordinate upbringing and Bonolenov’s experience as a performer and a fighter.

Feitan decides to take mercy on Phinks, who is definitely trying to hide his anxious movements. If this continues any longer, Shalnark is bound to make a mocking comment, Phinks will not respond well, and there will be a fight. While that would certainly be interesting, Feitan is rather certain the role of the boss is not to encourage infighting.

He picks a warehouse that looks a little less in danger of collapsing upon entrance -- not that it would be anything more than an inconvenience to them -- and veers towards it. The others follow without protest, and Feitan is definitely not used to this degree of obedience. The other members respect his strength and ability, but he hadn’t expected them to put any stock in his leadership skills.

The inside of the building is mostly dark, with liquid moonlight filtering through a decidedly absent portion of the ceiling. His eyes adjust to the darkness quickly, and he focuses aura into his eyes to scan the room. There is nothing present apart from a handful of insignificantly small animals.

“I’ll keep watch. The rest of you, do whatever you’d like.” Feitan picks a slightly flatter area and folds himself into a sitting position. The rubble that must have once been the ceiling is cool against his back, and the moon is just visible through the gaping hole. Its light illuminates the space, casting a gray glow on every plane.

There is no protest, no challenge as the others imitate him. If one of them doubts their safety with him keeping guard, they do not show it. 

He knows most of their sleeping habits from years of camaraderie- Shalnark sprawls out on the ground like a goddamn starfish, Shizuku curls into herself like an overgrown cat, Bonolenov just sits there and looks awake even though Feitan is somewhat sure he actually is asleep, and Kalluto climbs to the highest possible point (this time, a precariously stacked pile of rubble) and perches like a bird of prey, watching for its next victim. 

Phinks he does not understand. The man can sleep anywhere and does, too. Feitan has observed him, in similar situations, to sit normally, lounge across an impossibly wide surface area, lie with his arms clasped across his chest not unlike the corpse of some ancient king entombed for eternity, and even, once, use Feitan as a pillow. There is no reason for Phinks’s dramatically varied movements, he knows. It isn’t advantageous at all -- there was nothing beneficial about not having control over one’s limbs at all times.

Right now, Phinks is sitting nearest to Feitan, head bowed and hands clasped across his stomach. The moonlight plays across his usually brutal features, highlighting every plane and transforming his face into a statue carved from stone like one of his favored artifacts, ancient royalty preserved forever by some long-forgotten sculptor’s hand. It is certainly fascinating, Feitan thinks. His partner isn’t moving, but he doesn’t look dead (Feitan has seen more than enough corpses to know), nor does he seem like a coma patient, dead to the world, pathetic and useless, nothing more than a vegetable (Feitan has only seen a couple of those, but he’s certain he is right). 

No, he thinks, Phinks looks more like royalty than ever, with the kind of regal face seen only on kings and emperors. 

He doesn’t realize how long he’s been staring at Phinks until he notices Bonolenov watching him. Slowly, calmly, he turns his head to face the bandage-wrapped man -- had he noticed what Feitan was doing? 

Bonolenov stands up, and the part of his bandages where his mouth probably is twitches up into what might be a smile. Feitan isn’t sure what that means, and he feels his face heat up, cursing for the umpteenth time his lack of a proper facial covering. Mercifully, Bonolenov declines to comment on his observations. “I’m leaving,” he announces to Feitan. “The elders summon me, and I must answer. Good luck, and I am certain our paths shall cross again.”

Feitan nods, thanks him. The other man turns and strides out the gap in the wall, and Feitan is left staring into the inky darkness left behind. 

Bonolenov’s disappearance will not be questioned the next morning, and Feitan knows the reason is quite simple. The Spider is formed around absolute trust fused with pure caprice, a concrete foundation blown about by the lightest breezes. None would dare betray them, so each leg was afforded total freedom. 

Feitan knows this, but he also knows that he is not Chrollo, the head that keeps the legs in line, the one to whom the Spider’s loyalty is granted. 

He doesn’t feel the time pass, only watches the moon make its infinite journey through the night sky. This close to the city, the stars are invisible, masked by the glow of skyscrapers and streetlamps. Eventually, even the moon disappears, leaving in its wake a pastel forewarning of dawn. 

Kalluto is the first to stir. They snap awake with an almost violent motion when the first ray of light pierces the ambient dusk lingering in the warehouse. Wide pink eyes peer around the space before settling on Feitan and blinking once, slowly. 

They dangle their legs over the edge of their hazardously-stacked perch and pull out their fan. It is quite delicate-looking, as if the lightest amount of pressure could permanently mar or even break it. Kalluto treats it like such, too, even though Feitan has no doubt it is some kind of weapon or could be used as one. 

Phinks returns to consciousness with little of the dignity Feitan had observed during the night. The larger man awakens with much annoyed grumbling, squinting into the light now filtering in, before turning to Feitan with an exasperated sigh. “Danchou, did you sleep at all last night?”

Feitan raises an eyebrow. “Obviously not. I was keeping watch.”

His partner scoffs in reply. “If you’d reached deity status, you would have told me. Otherwise, you should know that you still need sleep. When was the last time, seriously? Yorknew City?”

Feitan glances at him out of the corner of his eye. “It wasn’t that long ago. Don’t worry about me, baichi.”

Phinks doesn’t grace this with a proper reply, only raising his lack of eyebrows in mild disapproval. 

“What are we doing today, danchou?” Shizuku saves him from further interrogation of his sleeping habits. She materializes out of nowhere -- Feitan hadn’t even see her wake up. 

Unfortunately, her question isn’t much better than if Phinks had kept displaying interest in his nightly affairs. With a start, Feitan realizes that he has no idea. The mantle of interim boss is still new to him, and he can feel the weight of responsibility drag him down. He definitely had not planned this far ahead, or in this much detail. 

Phinks must recognize the sudden flare of panic Feitan feels. “Do you want to leave the city now, or do you want to find something to do?”

“Fuck Nobunaga, he can wait a couple days,” Feitan responds. “Let’s find something to do.” 

“Do you know of any places we can hit?” Phinks prompts. Feitan does not. 

“Well, neither do we. Shalnark might, though,” Shizuku supplements, glancing towards the floor.

The pastel-clad horror in question is still sprawled on the ground, either asleep or faking it very, very dedicatedly. “Should we wake him up?” Kalluto ventures. 

“If you can,” Phinks tells them. 

“Good luck,” Feitan adds.

Their face twists into something like confusion, and they step forwards to nudge a limb with their foot. Shalnark doesn’t move. They bend down to poke at the prone figure, using enough force to roll it over.

Kalluto looks back at Feitan, this time with an expression caught between confusion and fear. He can’t help but suppress a laugh. Kalluto, innocent and clueless despite all their assassin training at the hands of their family, did not know just what a terror Shalnark was in the morning. 

It takes a good half an hour to rouse their sleeping companion. Countless pokes, shakes, and occasional whacks with Blinky later, Shalnark finally sits up, blinking blearily up at them. He squints at the sunlight now saturating the dusty warehouse and lets out a noise of disgust.

“Come on, get up, you lazy fuck,” Phinks taunts. Shalnark makes an obscene gesture at him. Phinks responds in kind.

“Shut up, no eyebrows, you guys made me walk a whole day through the godforsaken desert knowing I used Autopilot. A guy needs his beauty rest,” Shalnark throws back. 

Phinks snorts. “Even beauty rest can’t save your sorry face.”

“Now, now, children, don’t fight,” Feitan teases. Both his companions turn towards him, mocking smiles at the ready, but Shizuku comes to his rescue. 

“We still don’t know how we plan to avoid Nobunaga for a day,” she interjects. “Maybe you’ll be of some use, Shal?”

Shalnark sets down the piece of rubble he had been aiming at Phinks and pulls his phone out of some unseen pocket. “Where are we, again? Bennu?”

“Yes. There were signs all over the road we came in on,” Feitan tells him. 

“Hey, Phinks, do you by any chance want another one of your shitty old animal statues?”

Phinks’s attention snaps, whip-like, to Shalnark. “First of all, they’re not shitty. Those animal statues are the legacy of one of the world’s greatest cultures. Fucking appreciate them or shut up.”

Shalnark laughs, light-hearted despite Phinks’s threatening tone. “Well, the Bennu Art Museum is having an exhibition on ancient Tpyge art. Want something?”

“Why are you even asking?” Phinks’s eyes seem to glow with cruel enthusiasm. It lights up his features in a manner very different from the menacing smirk that usually graces them. “Danchou, what do you think?”

Feitan can’t bring himself to crush his companion’s dreams. “Sure. It’s not like we have anything better to do,” he announces. He can’t help but doubt himself. Was the head of the Spider supposed to be so easily influenced? Chrollo was never this close to any of them, and he certainly didn’t have a partner.

The grin that splits Phinks’s features chases away any lingering self-doubt in Feitan’s mind like the sun burning away the morning’s final wisps of fog. 

***

Feitan certainly does not have a problem with their impromptu change of plans now. He watches the man facing him prop himself up on his dartgun. So little left of his former naive arrogance, Feitan thinks. 

The Troupe had snuck into the museum under the cover of nightfall. They split up somewhere in the ostentatiously-decorated courtyard, amid the geometrically perfect lawns and sidewalks. Shalnark and Shizuku were to dismantle the alarm system. A mere formality, Feitan thinks. They’d dealt with a couple thousand Mafia members armed to the teeth; what were a few security guards?

Kalluto was left to wait with them, and Feitan had noticed their increasing restlessness. It really did seem like they were still uncomfortable with the Troupe. A shame, Feitan had thought. There was no way they’d survive without trusting their fellow Spiders with their life. After all, there was nobody else. Family loyalties could never come before loyalty to the Troupe.

He had wondered if Chrollo noticed this about them, that their goal in joining them was definitely not solely for the purpose of fighting, stealing, killing, alongside one of the most infamous criminal groups in the world. Chrollo would never risk the Spider, not for anything. So why would he gamble with the safety of the Troupe like this, especially after Hisoka?

Feitan decides to follow Chrollo’s judgement. Anyone the boss trusts must be someone he trusts. “Kalluto,” he calls. 

They turn to him from where they stand apart from him and Phinks, all wide magenta eyes and apparent innocence. “I imagine you would still like to hide your abilities from the rest of us. We understand. You would probably prefer to guard the entrance while we find the,” he glances at Phinks, “shitty old animal statues.” He ignores Phinks’s protests in the background.  
Kalluto nods slowly. “Thank you. I can do that,” they reply, relief tinging their voice. “I will not fail you.”

Before Feitan can consider their last statement, the decorative lights illuminating the courtyard blink out. “That’s our cue,” Phinks says. “Kalluto, the courtyard’s all yours.” He turns towards the exhibition hall of the museum.

Feitan follows him into the dimly lit area. “You know, danchou, it isn’t like you to be that nice,” Phinks comments, interrupting the steady beeping emitted by the alarms. 

“They’re just a kid,” Feitan replies. 

“I’m just saying, you know what happened with those kids in Yorknew,” Phinks argues.

“Those kids had a friend that dedicated their life to vengeance. The Zoldycks, on the other hand, do not benefit from making enemies of the Troupe.”

The museum, it seems, was built to resemble a maze, the kind that would trap tourists in its corridors forever. They pass frame after frame of art decorating the walls, from immensely detailed yet partially naked cherubs to paint splatters and rectangles filling a canvas. Feitan decides that none of it is particularly to his taste. Why make tributes to reality when it can be twisted, shattered, broken and bloodied into something much more interesting?

The Tpyge exhibit lies at the end of the maze, an ironic kind of buried treasure. Gilded coffins, stone statues, tablets carved with alien symbols adorn the hall. 

“Well? Take your pick of shitty animal statues.” Feitan raises his eyebrows and gestures invitingly to the collection. 

Phinks grunts in indignation before taking to scan the exhibit. Ah, a shame really, that Phinks was no longer particularly annoyed by that. His partner is fun to rile up, Feitan thinks. A particular benefit to being around hotheaded people.

The tinkling of glass shattering pulls Feitan’s eyes to a corner of the exhibit. Phinks, face completely devoid of guilt, stands in front of what must have once been a display box, holding an ornate golden staff topped with an animal head. Child-like joy marks his features, and Feitan finds himself delighting in success as well.

Neither of them expect the dart that whizzes out of the darkness still cloaking the entrance to the exhibit. Feitan easily dodges it- even the self-proclaimed Chimera Ant queen in all her armored, monstrous glory had moved faster than that.

Three figures emerge from the gloom. “Drop your weapons!” it bellows. “We are licensed Hunters. This isn’t a fight you can win!”

“Shall we find out?” Feitan calls back.

Their three opponents step forwards into view, revealing two men and a woman. None are dressed in any semblance of uniform- one man wears an overcoat that reaches his feet and holds a staff, spinning it with practiced ease. The woman is dressed for combat in simple, unpatterned pants and shirt. She carries no weaponry, only wearing a set of brass knuckles. An Enhancer, Feitan theorizes, to have the confidence to bring only fists to a fight. 

The final man is an entirely different matter. A mountain of a creature, he towers above the other three, with most of his considerable mass concealed in the shadows of the ceiling. In his monstrous hands, the battleaxe at least Feitan’s height looks like a child’s toy.

“Fei, we should have some fun,” Phinks snarls, mouth twisting into a grin. 

“Yes, we should,” Feitan agrees. It has been far too long since he was last allowed to play with his victims. Greed Island was boring, the players jaded and hopeless and tired of trying, tired of living. They died easily, some simply giving in to the sweet release of death after months, years, spent in the game. In the real world, people were willing to fight. It just made defeating them and leaving their bodies and dreams broken, bloodied so much more satisfying.

The trenchcoat-clad man speaks again. “We will give you one more chance. Drop your weapons and place-” Feitan doesn’t care much for what he has to say. He draws his sword and flies towards their three guests.

The giant must not be very clever. He certainly does not seem to process that he is dead, not even with his throat slit open in a wide red smile. Even as his eyes glaze over, the man opens his mouth in surprise, as if trying to utter his final words on his way to the grave. 

He doesn’t quite make it. Before a sound can leave his mouth, he seems to choke, blood spurting out of his mangled neck. His bulk falls backwards in slow motion, finally landing with a resounding thud that rattles throughout the exhibit. 

Feitan lands beside the half-severed head of the toppled giant and faces the two remaining Hunters. “We don’t want another chance. Have I not made that clear?”

He really does love the moment when all hope leaves his opponent’s eyes. The remaining man and woman look at him in pure terror, and he feels a familiar rush- their lives are in his hands. And he is going to savor that feeling. 

Not much later, the man once again holds his tube-dartgun-staff in front of him again. His blood splatters onto the tiled floor from a myriad of shallow scratches, scarlet red on polished beige, and soaks into his overcoat, blossoming into dark stains. 

Feitan tilts his head. His opponent hasn’t landed a single hit. He is by no means weak- the movements of the staff are powerful and practiced, but there is no way for him to hit what he can’t even touch. At this point, it looks like he’s given up. Feitan faces the man and attacks once again, slipping under his slightly imperfect guard to score a line across his side. A second too late, the staff comes up to block, but a second is far more than enough for Feitan to be several feet away. 

The man turns to look at him, once again using the staff as a cane. Blood slicks the material, making it slippery in his hands. He looks at Feitan, looks straight up from his hunched position. “Please,” he stutters. 

How utterly pathetic. There is no way he would give mercy to such a contemptible creature. It would be far more amusing to play with him some more, but Feitan is nearing the end of his patience. “Please what?” he asks. 

“Please just let me go, I promise I won’t tell anyone, I’ll quit the job, I’ll leave, just please don’t kill me,” the man babbles, plaintively, helpless, like a child whining over a stolen toy. 

Feitan shifts his stance, making no move towards the man. What a contradictory, blubbering idiot. “How strange. I thought you wanted a fight? It was, after all, you who challenged us.”

“I was wrong, you’ve won, please just let me go,” the man sobs. 

This fool really is irritating. Who does he think he’s begging for his life from? “If you say so,” Feitan tells him. The man’s eyes light up for a second, hopeful and naive again, and Feitan watches it all drain away again as he splits the man’s torso shoulder to hip. 

His body crashes to the ground, blood spreading across the ground in a widening pool. Feitan turns away. He hears the man croak out, “You promised…”

He doesn’t grace the man with eye contact. “I don’t make promises to scum. Besides, you’re free now. Isn’t death freedom enough?”

Unfortunately, the man does not laugh at his joke. Disappointing to the last. Feitan leans down and wipes his sword on the body, then sheaths it. He kind of regrets finishing him off so quickly. Maybe if he had riled the man up a bit more, he would have put up more of a fight. 

He turns to the other side of the exhibit, where Phinks and the woman are still fighting. She seems to be actually putting in effort, but she falls far short of the mark. As he watches, Phinks lands a hit to her arm. The crack of bones shattering resounds throughout the enclosed space. 

The woman doesn’t give up or back off. She is skilled, moving efficiently and quickly both with her body and her Nen, but Phinks is far better. He moves like a hurricane, brutality and grace spiraled together. Feitan knows, from years of experience, that even a simple punch from his partner can shatter skulls. 

He leans against the conveniently blood-free wall and observes, for want of something better to do. It is a good show, far better than his, but it nears its finale. The woman is slowing down, especially with only one functioning arm. Phinks still winds around her, dodging blows but rarely throwing any. It looks like a dance, Feitan thinks. He recognizes how skilled his partner is- that is, after all, why they are partners- but seeing brute force merged with grace never fails to impress. 

Phinks lands a blow to the woman’s abdomen, and she folds in half, incapacitated, likely by severe internal organ damage. She coughs, and blood drips onto the floor. The game is as good as over. Phinks pulls his arm back, winds it one, two, three, four times and puts her out of her misery. His punch lands with a sound like a baseball bat hitting a ripe fruit. She topples to the ground, twitching and spurting gushes of blood, torso almost blasted into two pieces.

Phinks leaves the body lying there. “Hey, Fei,” he calls across the gallery. “Should we clean up?”

Feitan looks around. The giant’s blood is still leaking from his torn throat, and the pool merges with the one around the overcoated man, leaving much more scarlet on the ground than beige. The woman’s maimed body would be disturbing to any other observer, but he has seen human bodies contorted and mauled into much more dubious arrangements. 

He looks back at Phinks. “It’s their mess. I don’t want to,” he replies, and Phinks snorts a sound of amusement. “But we probably should.”

“Growing a sense of responsibility, are we, danchou?” Phinks snickers.

“The only reason we’re here is for your awful relics. I’m being responsible for you, baichi, since one of us has to do it. Anyways, it’s probably what Chrollo would tell us to do. He does prefer the Troupe to be subtle and less messy.”

Phinks sobers at the mention of Chrollo, and Feitan feels a twinge of envy bubble up, unpleasant and green. “I’ll call Shal, then,” Phinks says. The subject change is almost painfully abrupt.

Upon arrival, Shalnark pulls a face at the mess of corpses in the gallery. “You guys are gross. Was this really necessary?”

“No, but it was fun,” Feitan tells him, the familiar sound of Blinky whirring to life in the background. “Don’t you play with your food, too?”

Shalnark laughs, light and clear and completely at contrast to the subject matter. “Okay, that’s fair. But at least I don’t make a mess!”

“Yes, you do. Just not directly,” Feitan teases.

“Well, at least I’m not directly liable!” Shalnark protests. “I don’t have to clean up, at least.”

The background swish of vacuumed liquid stops. Feitan turns to see the gallery completely clean, save for the broken case and the conspicuously missing staff. “Come on, let’s go meet Kalluto.”

They find Kalluto sitting in relatively the same position they were left in. The only difference, really, is the fragments of uniformed human bodies peppered with confetti lying in the once-pristine grass. 

“I thought you wouldn’t like the interruption,” Kalluto says by way of greeting. “But they were boring.”

Phinks ruffles their hair. “You did good, kid. We’ll make a spider out of you yet,” he tells Kalluto, and, despite the indignation of being treated like the eleven-year-old they are, their eyes shine with delight. It is an inordinately pleased reaction to simple praise, Feitan thinks, and he wonders how many times they have actually been lauded, been told that their accomplishments were exceptional. The Zoldycks had never seemed like the kind of family to treat their children with overt kindness. 

“Hey, we should celebrate!” Shalnark says, as if remembering something very important. Maybe he was right. The last time they had properly enjoyed themselves was during Greed Island, and even that was laced with the pressure of finding the exorcist and dealing with the clown. 

“You mean steal alcohol and get drunk at base? Isn’t that what we always do?” Phinks drawls. 

“No, loser! We should go to a club or something. Mingle with other people. Although I know social interaction isn’t a forte of yours,” Shalnark laughs, playful insult masked in false concern. 

“Oh, I’m the one that doesn’t understand social interaction? The only interaction you have with anyone outside of the Spider is literal fucking mind control!”

The comfortable banter does not relent until they pass through the entrance of their makeshift hideout, and even then Feitan revels in the atmosphere, in the familiar sense of being at ease, riding the lingering high of success and invincibility.

***

Feitan can feel the bass of the club music in his bones. It isn’t bad, objectively speaking, but it is much louder and far too different from the silence he is most comfortable in. The girl at the turntables -- a blonde with a streak of blue in her hair, illuminated by the flashing colored lights scanning the dance floor -- seems to be quite the celebrity, judging by the number of people present.

He can’t quite bring himself to care; this animalistic revelry was never an interest of his. Getting drunk, sure, forgetting everything in favor of dizzy lightheadedness and a far more optimistic view of the world than he could ever possess while sober, but this kind of public display was beyond unimaginable for him.

The others were obviously different. They were, after all, the ones who had wanted to celebrate a victory like this. Shalnark and Phinks are somewhere in that undulating crowd, probably ensnaring their respective stress outlets for the night. Feitan doesn’t see the point. People are much more entertaining when in pain. 

At least both of them were guaranteed success, with Shalnark’s infinite charm and Phinks’s general… something. Feitan isn’t sure, but he doesn’t understand why anyone would turn Phinks down, despite his quick temper and violent nature and general unpleasantness. He takes another swig from the bottle of something -- was it vodka or tequila? He doesn’t remember, doesn’t particularly care -- on the table in front of him.

A sound across from him draws his attention, and he looks up to see Shizuku slide into the booth across from him. “Hello, danchou. Are you drinking alone?”

Replying to an obvious question seems like a waste of breath, especially with the slight dulling fog he feels creeping over his senses. Instead, he downs another swallow of the liquid in the bottle. The burn as it runs down his throat barely registers.

“So that’s a yes. I hear you shouldn’t do that,” Shizuku comments, voice somehow lacking any inflection that would imply judgement. “It could be a sign of a deeper problem.”

He sets the now-empty bottle on the table next to the one he finished some time ago, resisting the urge to smash it or throw it and see the glass shards fall, maybe even watch them score red lines across his unprotected hands. “I don’t care,” he finally replies and looks up at her. Shizuku’s eyes are clear- she hasn’t been drinking.

She hums in response and turns, looking back out towards the churning dance floor.

Time passes. The music does not get much better, and the lights are as seizure-inducing as before, sweeping the crowd and flashing between colors- acidic, overly saturated red, blue, green, yellow. 

Eventually, Shalnark comes stumbling back, lips swollen and eyes wide. He slides into the booth and drops his head onto the suspiciously sticky table. Shizuku slides over, accommodating the considerable amount of space now being taken up by an alcohol-scented, vibrantly pastel lump. Feitan can’t help but be impressed at his level of intoxication. It takes a frankly ridiculous amount of alcohol to get any Spider well and truly drunk. 

The vibrantly pastel lump in question groans into the metal surface. “Fei, I fucked up. I really fucked up.”

“What did you do?” Feitan leans in closer, ignoring the questionable surface pressed against his arms.

“I fucked up,” Shalnark repeats rather unhelpfully. 

Feitan has no idea how to respond to this. Dealing with people has never been particular skill of his, unless, of course, the phrase “dealing with” entails swords and corpses. Absently, he wonders where Phinks is. The crowd shows no signs of his familiar figure. 

He then wonders why he cares at all. Why should he give a fuck about what his allies do when not on a job? 

Shizuku prods him, expression still carefully blank. “Come on, you can tell us. Aren’t we all friends here?”

Shalnark only makes a noise like a displeased cat, mingling reluctance and discomfort into one drawn-out sound. He does not seem at all willing to share, and Shizuku obviously accepts this and does not pester him further. 

The overly loud music, which Feitan has managed to reduce to background noise, shifts into something equally obnoxious but still vaguely different. 

Shizuku looks back at him. “He doesn’t normally do this, does he.” It is not a question. There is a reason Shizuku is so adept at analyzing people -- she does not forget what she deems important.

“No,” Feitan agrees, voice pitched low in case Shalnark is still conscious. “Only since the auction.”

Shizuku nods, unsurprised. “He misses Uvo.” Another statement.

“And Machi misses Paku. They let themselves become attached.”

She tilts her head. “You make it sound like it’s such a bad thing.”

Feitan isn’t sure how to answer this. “Attachment gets people killed. It’s why the Spider always works alone.” Shizuku does not respond, only pushes her glasses back up her nose, an apparently futile gesture, as they slide right back down. “You haven’t forgotten Yorknew. Paku died because she was too attached to the boss,” he continues. 

“We could have all died otherwise. The Spider would have been torn apart. And Uvo died alone. He would have lived if he was with someone. Remember what Machi said? Uvo was always stronger when protecting someone,” Shizuku replies. Her tone remains light, but Feitan can feel the weight of her words -- they hang in the air like thick smog and refuse to fade. 

He is saved from having to reply by Phinks’s return. Phinks is latched onto the arm of a reasonably pretty girl, with piercings and metallic colors, bedecked in glowsticks, like she bathed in the residue of the neon lights illuminating the front of the club. She leans up and kisses him on the cheek, then whispers something in his ear and prances off. Feitan despises her on sight- how dare an outsider, a weakling, associate so closely with the Troupe?

Phinks collapses into the grimy booth with an audible thump, then grabs the now-abandoned bottle on the table. He downs it in one gulp. Shizuku focuses her cool gaze back on Feitan and raises an eyebrow, as if to ask, well? What are you going to do?

“We should leave. Kalluto’s still waiting for us,” Feitan says, not intending to allow any contention. 

He is met with none, but Shizuku raises an eyebrow. “I am certain Kalluto is fine. You saw what was left of those guards at the museum.” Thankfully, she does not comment further, instead grabbing both drunks and pulling them out of the booth with surprising force, like a mother cat collecting a set of unruly kittens. “If nobody sober has any objections, let’s leave.”

***

“I can walk,” Phinks whines as he stumbles over his own feet for the nth time. His eyes are still glassy and unfocused, and he grins at Feitan, showing teeth in that almost predatory smile reserved for charming victims.

“Baichi,” Feitan intones in reply. “Of course you can’t, unless you want to fall?”

The taller man barks out a laugh and mutters something under his breath. Feitan ignores it and stretches over, placing Phinks’s arm over his shoulders and reaching around his waist. It isn’t easy- Phinks has quite a bit of height on him- but Feitan is more than capable of supporting his weight.

They stumble towards the street after Shizuku and Shalnark, Shizuku with a hand on Shalnark’s elbow. It certainly doesn’t look like he is relying on her support, but Feitan knows otherwise, knows that Shalnark is resting quite heavily on her, knows that he needs it more than any of them would like to admit, that Shizuku will never complain -- such is the nature of their relationship.

The city seems as deserted as the abandoned warehouse district, with only spots like the club they just left acting as hotspots of life and vitality. The rest is a desert of human activity, with only solitary strays and stragglers of both human and animal persuasions radiating aura.

The two pairs manage to stumble their way back to their temporary hideout without any incident, although Feitan is certain he could handle any possible attackers alone without even dropping Phinks’s dead weight.

Feitan does dump him unceremoniously at the crack in the wall, and Phinks stumbles and reclines against the wall, making no effort to move inside. “I thought you’d sobered up a bit by now, baichi,” Feitan comments. He gets a rude hand gesture in response, involuntarily dragging a smirk out of him. “How much did you drink?”

He gets only a wild laugh in reply, deep tones tinged with notes of what is probably regret. Feitan tsks in disapproval, turning to go inside.

A heavy hand falls on his shoulder, pausing him in his tracks. He turns to see Phinks looking down at him, face more open than he ever remembers seeing it. Spiders, murderers, thieves don’t show genuine emotion like that, he knows, but Phinks has nothing but honesty stamped across his normally cruel features.

“Danchou- Fei- wait.” Phinks is close enough that Feitan can smell the alcohol still clinging to him. Feitan is once again reminded of how nicely structured his partner’s face is, and it is even more august up close. 

He also, inconveniently, remembers how long it has been since his face was this close to someone else’s without actively attempting to kill the other. He hasn’t had a chance to find a decent one night stand since Yorknew City and Greed Island and their constant efforts on Chrollo’s behalf. And Phinks is really quite attractive, he realizes, eyes bright despite the alcohol and --

And before Feitan knows it, they’re both leaning in and their lips meet and oh this is way better than any faceless stranger he could find in a bar. 

It is not gentle. Of course it isn’t. When have either of them been gentle? Their lives are the exact opposite of gentle, blood-soaked and scarlet, leaving a trail of corpses wherever they passed. The alcohol is no help, either, with its subtle messages of yes, this is great, this is fun infiltrating his mind and lending warmth to the world. 

Phinks tastes like alcohol, and Feitan imagines that he must too, but he doesn’t care, because under the lingering bitterness there is copper and cinnamon and smoke and heat. He chases it, pressing against Phinks until they are flush against each other and there is the feel of hair between his fingers, large hands on his back holding him but not crushing him as he knows they can.

It takes Feitan a moment to realize what just happened when they finally break apart, gasping for air like they are drowning in the crisp night air. He sees Phinks realize it too, and he opens his mouth to say something, but Feitan knows he can’t, shouldn’t listen because then he will be drawn in again, a moth to a deadly flame. 

Instead, he turns on his heels and makes a tactical retreat into the dark interior of the burnt-out building, leaving Phinks standing outside. He ignores the wide, questioning fuchsia eyes that track his motions in the gloom -- this is really not something Kalluto needs to know, now or ever -- and settles in a corner to pretend to sleep.

He does not let himself admit that he enjoyed that.


	2. Part II: The Awkward One

None of them discuss the events of the previous night the next morning. Phinks and Shalnark are evidently hungover and express it quite constantly with their complaining until Shizuku bluntly informs them that they brought this upon themselves. The complaining eventually ceases into a heavy silence, hanging over them like dark clouds heralding a storm.

They depart quickly, leaving the warehouse as deserted and desolate as they found it. The abandoned factories look entirely different during the day, the sunlight turning menacing, hulking giants into meek, dilapidated husks. Feitan hates it. 

The city of Bennu, too, is different in daylight. Where once there were flashing neon lights and a dull void of sound, there is now the bustle of traffic, the sound of horns and cars and people and life where once there was easy grace and ambience. 

As the paved, neat road fades away into the bland sandwastes again, Feitan finds that he is glad to leave the city. He isn’t sure whether because of the sudden shift in atmosphere or the memories now associated with it -- warm weight draped over him, a hand on his shoulder, lips on his, the taste of incandescent heat, and -- no. He will not let himself dwell on it. Everyone does moronic things when drunk. Besides, such matters were a distraction. There was a job to do. 

Shalnark finally pierces the awkward atmosphere. “Hey, Fei. There’s a train north from the next city. We could make it to Blacktoad in a day and a half, and it would be a hell of a lot faster than any other method. What do you say?”

Feitan nods, agrees. There isn’t much else to do. 

****

The city of Navirtrou, Anozira is nowhere near the size of Bennu. It has an air of old-fashioned laziness about it, as if the entire city were still stuck in an earlier era. The city is a tangle of wooden buildings and winding streets, intimate and homely despite the countless people animating the city, the blood to the body.

The train station is not difficult to find. It seems to be one of very few modern buildings, a sleek, chrome box on the outskirts of town. Feitan doesn’t bother stopping by the ticketing office. Security leaves them alone, as it normally does. Even the mundane Nen-less can feel their aura and know to avoid them.

The train itself looks like an extension of the station. It gleams silver, graceful and streamlined. The interior reflects the same degree of luxury, plush carpets and spacious seats grouped around polished wooden tables. The five of them settle into the train, a set of wasteland rats faintly out of place amid such extravagance.

Feitan can’t remember falling asleep. He doesn’t so much wake up as snap back to consciousness when the train stops. The glass of the window has grown icy to the touch, and the artificial light from the interior does nothing to cut through the gloom gathering outside. A line of trees begins just a few yards from the side of the train, and the last dredges of sunlight are bleeding away over the treetops into streaks of purple and dark blue. A cold, automated female voice announces the station: Arrived at Citadel Noslen. This is the second to last stop. All passengers, please prepare to disembark.

He looks around. They have separated themselves into their usual pairs- Shalnark is leaning comically on Shizuku despite their considerable size difference. Shizuku’s gaze is focused on a point in the distance, outside the window, and her face betrays no emotion. She doesn’t look at Shalnark once. 

He doesn’t need to look to his left to know that Phinks is there. Of course he is. Feitan thinks, bitterly, that he must not remember what happened in Bennu. He wishes that he didn’t either, that things weren’t so unnecessarily complicated. 

Instead, he looks for the fifth member of their group. Kalluto blinks at him from across the aisle, vibrant pink eyes meeting his as they notice his attention. They look away quickly, and Kalluto returns to fiddling with a stray piece of paper.

It does not take someone actually good at reading people to see that Kalluto is uncomfortable. Feitan considers. As the interim boss, it is probably his job to keep everyone in line, including preventing new members from losing trust in the Spider. He decides to take the leap.

“Kalluto,” he calls, prompting them to look back up. “There’s something on your mind.”

At this, they start, betraying any attempt at secrecy. They look down at the partially-folded piece of paper in pale hands, then back up at Feitan. The answer, “Yes,” comes so quietly that Feitan almost doesn’t catch it.

He waits, not wanting to prompt them. Eventually, a few creases and folds later, Kalluto asks, “Have you seen or heard anything about my brother since Yorknew?”

So this was why a Zoldyck had joined them after all. Everything was always related to their family, in the end. But alienating Kalluto would be a mistake. They were young, could still be cut from the Zoldycks to serve the Spider. He decides to humor them. 

“No, we haven’t. If we had, he would be dead for what his friend did to us.”

Kalluto nods, expression unsatisfied. “It’s just… nobody knows where he is. Illumi says he lost his tracking on Killua somewhere near NGL, and the only way that could have happened is if Killua knew and tore it out.”

Feitan doesn’t say anything, and they continue. “What if Killua doesn’t want to come back? He said, back at Kukuroo Mountain that he would rather die than not have friends. I can’t kill him!” The last sentence comes out a vessel for all their distress, and Feitan is reminded that they are only eleven. Privately, he thinks that it would be fascinating to watch the two siblings battle, neither with the intent of killing, but both wanting to protect something. “I’m sorry,” they say, quietly, formally. “That was inappropriate.” Their hands return to fiddling with the piece of paper, which grows ever more three dimensional. 

“We all have our reasons for joining the Spider. We reject no one, so take nothing from us,” Feitan tells them, not unkindly.

His words are a warning as much as they are a reassurance. Kalluto nods but doesn’t respond. They place the piece of paper on the table in front of them, crisp white on fancy polished wood. It is a crane, Feitan realizes, delicate paper wings spread in flight but without wind to lift them. It looks far too easy to crush. One careless touch would crumple it, leave the fragile bird damaged beyond repair. 

Before Feitan can lean closer to look at it, Kalluto picks it back up and unfolds it one clean motion, leaving only a crinkled piece of paper that they tuck back into their kimono. 

Overhead, the robotic female voice says, monotonously, “Arrived at Blacktoad, Arechi. This is the last stop. All passengers, please disembark. Phinks snaps awake, expression confused for half a second before settling into its usual harsh countenance. Shizuku jostles Shalnark almost hard enough to push him off the seat.

The train pulls into another modern, chrome building, not at all distinguishable from its sibling to the north. The sun has completely set, with the last wisps of twilight long faded into black. 

Machi and Nobunaga await them at the station, passable for average civilians save for Nobunaga’s badly-disguised sword and Machi’s neon pink hair. As they step off the train onto the platform, the cool night air whips through the station, rustling fabric and gusting between the few people still around. 

Machi greets them, manner cool and composed as always. “Nice to see you,” she says. “Feitan, I hear you’re interim boss?”

He does not miss the challenge in her voice, powder snow layered over tempered steel. Machi would never tolerate a threat to Chrollo’s position, he knows. “I am,” he answers. He will not allow a challenge to his authority, either, not even from Machi.

She nods, once, acknowledging his answer but not relenting. “Let’s go back. We’ll explain the situation back at base.”

This time, base is a sprawling, rundown shack on the edge of the city. It sits on a wooded hill, the final sentinel between the twinkling city lights and the sinister forest beyond the edge. Beyond the forest looms a cliff -- a high, impassive stone face of a thing, its top shrouded in night.

The interior is more spacious than the outside implies, with a sparsely furnished living room and a kitchen visible, and an unlit hallway reaching further into the house. It is illuminated by a single skylight -- electric lights would draw far too much attention to their presence.

Machi settles onto the couch, position relaxed yet poised to attack -- the posture of any experienced fighter. The others take up positions around the room: Nobunaga at Machi’s side like an ever-watchful guard dog, Kalluto on the worn, faded carpet, Shizuku on the kitchen counter and Shalnark leaning against it. Phinks claims the other armchair, a hideously patterned thing with more than a few brownish stains that were more likely than not dried blood. Feitan perches on the armrest. Unnecessary complications aside, they were still allies, allies with absolute trust in each other. 

“You’ve heard of the Chimera Ants,” Machi begins. “They’re getting more ambitious. They’ve spread all over the continent, not just in isolated places like Meteor City.” She gestures towards the window facing the city. “Blacktoad is too far south to be any real vulnerability, but I imagine its citizens won’t be pleased with becoming livestock.”

Phinks raises his lack of eyebrows, disbelief etched on his face. “Why should we care?”

“I don’t,” Machi replies. “But someone in the city does, and they’re paying us rather nicely to exterminate the Ants. Apparently, people have been going into the woods and not returning, or returning half dead and gibbering about monsters.” Disdain laces her tone, as if anyone stupid enough to get themselves killed or maimed by Ants deserved it. Privately, Feitan agrees. 

“So they are here. That’ll be fun!” Shalnark says, obviously not concerned with the prospect of death. 

“Why did you invite us, then?” Feitan asks, intending to throw her off.

“Because there are a lot,” Machi shoots back, not missing a beat. “The one man that returned with about half his limbs says that there were several dozen when they brought him back to their nest.”

At this, Nobunaga snorts. “Your intuition is the only reason we’re believing him. He could have been sent by the Ants, for all we know.”

Machi tsks in response. “It's the only information we have. And even if the Ants sent him, it is in their interest to exaggerate their numbers. The people of Blacktoad are weak and terrified. They will submit easily to such greater power.”

She pauses. “You know they are not weak. They are not like the Mafia or their Shadow Beasts. I don’t know about you, but I would prefer not to die.”

“It's settled, then.” Feitan rises from his perch. “We leave at midnight.”

***

The forest is lit only by the few rays of moonlight filtering through the thick canopy of branches. The trees are completely, eerily silent, absent of even the calls and rustles of insects, or the chattering and hooting of nocturnal birds. 

They stop at a clearing, a single isolated place surrounded by shadows outlined against the night sky, blocking out the stars. “Since not all of us were here last time, another competition?” Feitan offers. “Whoever kills their leader. The winner is interim boss.” 

Machi meets his eyes, icy blue answering night black. “Of course.”

“Then I’ll go this way,” he says, pointing straight ahead.

“I’ll take the left,” Machi replies. “Everyone else?”

The remaining Spiders -- Nobunaga, Shizuku, Shalnark, Kalluto, Phinks -- turn and face the forest. “Ready, I presume?” Machi asks. Seven auras flare to life, filling the clearing like a single bonfire. “Then… start!”

They scatter, far faster than any ordinary eye could follow. Feitan hurtles through the trees, night air whipping past him. Branches with clawed, knobbly talons reach for him, but he does not let them slow him down. He refuses to lose his position to Machi. She might be competent, but he is more so.

He is first stopped by a carapaced monstrosity of an Ant. Its hulking form looms in the darkness, and what must be its mouthpiece opens in a grotesque approximation of a smile when it spots him. He doesn’t pause. The creature is by no means slow, judging by the attempt it makes at countering him, but by the time it can properly react, half its limbs lie in the fallen leaves carpeting the ground, leaking blue into a spreading pool.

Feitan’s sword is at its throat in the next instant, blade pressing into the vulnerable gap between plates of armor. “Tell me where your leader is, and you might live,” he hisses into where its ear probably is. The Ant struggles to stand. Instead of answering, it attempts to grab at him with claws that gleam in the moonlight, a testament to their razor-sharp edges. He dodges easily and follows the limb with his sword, cleanly severing it at the joint. It lands on the ground with a muffled thump, joining its fellows.

He lands cleanly in front of it and faces the creature again, blade dripping coppery blue. “I commend your loyalty. But that can’t help you now.”

It turns, bulging eyes scanning the trees for a possible route of escape. Its desperate bids for live border on amusing. “Don’t try,” Feitan kindly tells it. “I will find you and make your death last days.”

The brute still does not answer. He does not have time for this. 

He leaves the decapitated, dismembered carcass lying where it falls, lost among the endless thicket, and moves forwards, towards where the base of the cliff should be. An animalistic scream of fear, terror, pain splits the silence hovering over the forest. He changes course, heading away from the source of the noise. Whatever was over there, it would not be alive for much longer. 

The forest is still irrevocably large, with every turn he makes revealing only more of the same landscape. Wandering blindly and killing everything in his path might have worked at Zazan’s castle, but that was a limited, enclosed space. Here, there is only underbrush and treetops for miles around, even the moon and stars blocked out. Inefficiency will not do, not in this competition, Feitan decides. He will not let luck be a deciding factor. After all, a proper leader needs to be able to think and strategize.

He looks around and finds a particularly tall tree, a burned-out relic consumed by lightning. The few branches remaining crumble to dust under his touch and his hands are dusted in fine ash by the time he reaches the top, but it makes for an easy climb. 

The expanse of trees spreads out in front of him, homogenous trees interspersed with faint flashes of color. This high, there is no cover to shelter him, so the wind tugs and whispers through his hair and clothes, as if it is inviting him to fall and see if he flies. From here, he can see Machi in the distance, a neon pink and white blur moving through shimmering blue strands. Shalnark’s bright lavender, almost garish in the gloom settled over the woods, stands still, but something in front of him moves like a juggernaut, sending trees and body parts of both human and animal persuasion flying. 

Closer to him is Kalluto, who is surrounded by a storm of confetti. As Feitan observes, they move slowly and gracefully, directing the paper like a conductor in an orchestra, or maybe a dancer adorned with ribbons. They really are incongruous to their surroundings -- the confetti descends, then rises splattered with blood. They must be a Manipulator, just like that brother of theirs with the disguises and pins.

Slightly beyond Kalluto is Phinks, engaged with an Ant resembling a mantis. It is more insect than human, standing on six legs rather than two, but it moves with brutal efficiency and speed. He takes a second to watch, consider how he can take the kill. The two are evenly matched -- Phinks fights without a weapon, his Nen the only shield and spear he needs. So does the Ant, although it blocks and strikes with its front claws like they are blades attached to its body instead of limbs. The Ant’s reach is longer than Phinks’s, too, and it is as fast as Zazan, if not more so. Though the spheres of crackling energy generated by Ripper Cyclotron appear and explode with considerable frequency, Phinks can’t seem to land a solid hit. 

Feitan decides that his best opportunity is probably to watch and wait for the fight to end. Phinks switching out with him is highly unlikely, stubborn asshat that he is, so the only thing to do is to stand by. Maybe he can even bring Kalluto -- they would do well to learn from this battle.

He finds them as they step away from what must have been their opponent. It is completely impossible to tell what it once was; he can only make out hunks of flesh and gelatinous organs, all swimming in a veritable soup of blood. “Had fun?” he asks, not bothering to conceal his presence.

Kalluto turns around, and he can see traces of surprise lingering in their expression at his sudden appearance. They might be talented, a prodigy, even, but they still had a lot of basic Nen training to undergo. “I wasted my time,” they reply, although they look faintly pleased with themself.

Feitan lightly steps through the mess of blue lymph and gore, careful to avoid particularly large chunks. “There’s nothing wrong with enjoying yourself. It’s better to learn something for next time than to continue before you’re ready.”

Kalluto nods and follows him without protest. They don’t question Feitan’s course through the forest, which he assumes to mean that they either trust him (unlikely) or already know where Phinks is (less unlikely). There is definitely more to their abilities that Feitan knows, and he can’t help but be vaguely impressed. Two, possibly more Hatsus at the age of eleven -- in a few more years, they could rise high in the ranks of the Troupe.

But not yet. Feitan still has a battle to commandeer and win.

***

They arrive just in time to see Phinks fall, blood arcing through the air almost comically. 

Kalluto’s soft gasp of shock and fear nearly doesn’t register. No, Feitan thinks. No, that isn’t possible. He sprints to the white-robed figure’s side. Scarlet pools around Phinks at an alarming rate, spreading from an alarmingly long gash rending him from shoulder to hip. The fierce eyes Feitan is so used to seeing filled with expressions of rage, amusement, bloodlust, victory, are becoming unfocused, drifting towards the patches of sky visible through the gaps between dark branches.

“No,” he finally vocalizes in a voice he almost doesn’t recognize. Since when has his speech been that choked? “No, baichi, you can’t do this.”

Phinks’s eyes slide over to meet his, recognition flashing in dark depths for a split second. “Sorry, danchou. It’s been fun,” he manages, usual deep voice nothing more than a hoarse whisper.

Feitan is unable to do anything but watch as his oldest accomplice’s eyes slide closed, chest unmoving save for the sluggish stream of blood leaking out. He reaches a hand out to brush Phinks’s skin, but it is pale and stone-cold, with none of the warmth that usually radiates from him like a miniature sun. He remembers, inappropriately, the taste of that warmth, the feeling of being entangled in each other and sharing space, sharing life, vitality.

Phinks can’t do this to him, not when Feitan is still wondering why. Anyways, he’s too stubborn, too obstinate to just die, not when they’ve done so much and still have so much more to do. Phinks has been by his side as long as he can remember, the sun to his moon, the day to his night, brutality contrasted to his finesse. They’re partners, they can’t be separated, nothing the world has thrown at them can do that.

Phinks still isn’t moving, but the flow of blood seems to be slowing, the pool around the prone form spreading a little slower. The gash across his body is still gaping open, but he’s dying, maybe even dead already, closing it won’t help, Feitan can’t do anything now, what kind of a leader is he to allow the one person he wants alive die in front of him?

A light touch on his shoulder anchors him. “He’s not dead yet. Look,” Kalluto’s soft voice drifts towards him, and he almost flinches. He’d forgotten they were there. 

They point at Phinks’s chest and yes, Feitan can see it moving up and down, minute breaths but still breaths, a sign of life. He clings onto this tiny scrap of hope and focuses, tries to gather his thoughts. “Kalluto,” he starts, voice almost stable, much to his surprise. “I need you to take him back to Machi. She can fix this.”

They nod, then start glancing towards the lithe, insectile figure waiting a safe distance away, before catching themself. “But what about the Ant?”

Feitan feels a flash of irritation, tinted at the edges with anger. “Are you doubting me?”

Kalluto must sense it in his aura, because they shake their head, eyes wide with apprehension but silent. They crouch down and lift the unmoving body effortlessly. Phinks’s head lolls limply to the side, and Feitan hates it, hates how helpless his partner is in this state. 

They stand and are out of sight, lost in the forest in an instant. Feitan rises and faces the creature before him.

The Chimera Ant turns to him. It is a parody of a praying mantis, with long front legs still tipped in impossibly bright crimson. Sinister eyes gleam in a disgustingly humanoid face, and a smirk spreads across its visage, forked tongue flicking out of its mouth. Feitan knows the cruel joy, the rush of power at controlling life and death the creature feels, knows it better than any emotion, but he cannot emphasize with it. Not when Phinks’s blood still stains its claws.

He remembers the fight with Zazan, with the mafia in Yorkshin City, with the chain user’s clan, the calm reasoning and strategy behind them all, paired with the delight of ripping through flesh and the tang of coppery blood and fire. There is none of that now. Only rage courses through his veins, a burning toxin, carrying the spiraling pain in his chest to every part of his body.

The monstrous creature watches almost condescendingly, head tilted to one side in curiosity. It blurs in his vision, as if it were standing behind a veil of water, and Feitan realizes that his eyes are stinging and watering. He blinks, rubs at them. When was the last time he cried? Weakness was not a trait ever to be associated with him.

The Ant emits a clicking noise like someone chewing a mouthful of dice, and Feitan realizes that it is laughter. “Idiot boy,” it hisses, mouthpiece moving in a way that should not have allowed it to produce sound. “What chance do you have to defeat me, a Squadron Leader, the greatest accomplishment of the Queen? Your knucklehead of a friend came nowhere close.”

How dare it. How dare this aberration, this mere insect insult both him and Phinks. Feitan feels his blood rise, concentrated fury and hatred. His aura comes to him automatically, a familiar conflagration flaring to life. But this time it feels different, violent, exploding around him and reaching for the treetops. He focuses on the rending, twisting pain in his gut, the feeling of being torn apart from the inside, the sense of being powerless, of being too late, and his armor settles around him, a cold embrace like the arms of Death itself.

The smirk falls off the Ant’s face almost instantaneously. Feitan concentrates his aura, and the resultant sphere of solar energy glows white hot, scorching the air around it and pulsing with heat waves.

He chokes out, “And now I return your pain,” and the world becomes fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading <33


	3. Part III: The Angsty Feelings Jam One

Kalluto feels like they are flying through the forest, desperation lending them speed and wind rustling the confetti still clinging to their robes. Phinks’s dead weight does not slow them down at all- Mother had ensured that they could open at least three of the gates before allowing them to step outside the manor grounds.

They don’t look back. They can’t afford to look back, even though Feitan is fighting something that could kill Phinks, whom they have not seen in action but must be exceedingly powerful to have Feitan’s respect. Kalluto glances at the dead weight in their arms. This is a task they cannot fail, not only for Phinks, but for Feitan. They can’t shake the utter shock and horror of seeing an expert killer, the second in command of the Phantom Troupe, break down like that. Kalluto has spent enough time dealing in assassinations to know that the death of someone close can spell disaster for a person.

The trees begin to thin out, and Kalluto can see the moonlit field past the forest. A few figures are waiting already, with one horizontal on the ground. They narrow their eyes. Why would the others already be waiting? The Ant that claimed authority wasn’t dead yet.

When they break through the treeline, the gathered Spiders -- all of their group save for Feitan -- rush to their side. Kalluto places their now worryingly cold burden on the grass, and Machi is at their side instantly, tearing bloodstained cloth away. She spins a glowing thread between her fingers and threads a needle in a practiced motion. Phinks still does not move, even in the moment her needle pierces flesh.

“What happened?” she asks, eyes never leaving her work. Her hands move too fast to track, a blur of shimmering thread. Kalluto finds themself fascinated by her skill, the experience of years clearly evident in every action, and almost doesn’t hear the question. 

“I’m not sure,” they tell her. “Phinks found their leader first, I assume. We only saw the end of the fight.”

“I see,” Machi replies, voice calm to the point of apathy. “Thank you, Kalluto.” She ties the thread, severing it in one clean motion, and sits back. “That’s all I can do for now. The wound is sealed, so he won’t keep bleeding, but he’s already lost a lot of blood.”

Kalluto looks up to find Shalnark hovering over Phinks’s prone figure. “So do you know if he’ll live?” he asks, voice betraying his concern. Kalluto recalls that Shalnark, Phinks, and Feitan were -- no, are -- close, with a rapport they can only describe as friendship. 

Machi lifts an eyebrow and meets Shalnark’s anxious gaze. “I don’t know. That’s up to him. All we can do is wait for Feitan. Kalluto, what was Feitan like when you left him?”

They try to recall, and images of a pale face twisted in agony, rage, disbelief flash through their memory. “It wasn’t good. His aura was awful, and he was much worse than the fight with Zazan.”

Shalnark straightens up and gazes into the murk of the forest. “He’ll explode soon, then.”

Kalluto turns and spots the body lying on the ground. Upon closer inspection, it is clearly not human, with a pinched face that can only be described as weasel-like and a covering of fine brown fur matted with blood. It is also very clearly dead. “Machi,” they venture, tentatively. “Why do you have that?”

“It told me it was a Squadron Leader and the future king of the world, so I killed it. Its Nen wasn’t bad, though -- way better than the other shit out there. Chances are it was their leader,” she says. “And I thought it best to bring the body with me, since Feitan isn’t exactly the most trusting of people.”

“Oh. So there were two,” they murmur, recalling the presence of Feitan’s opponent. The others must have watched Machi’s fight and thought the Ants defeated with the fall of one leader.

“What?” Machi says, focusing the full force of her gaze on them. 

Kalluto can’t help but feel small under her cold, intense scrutiny. “The Ant Phinks fought,” they start. “It was no ordinary Ant.”

She hums in response, thoughtful. “I think you’re right. So there were two leaders. Well, that does nothing to help us decide the contest. Unless, of course, Feitan doesn’t --” 

She is interrupted by an immense, bone-jarring shockwave, and Kalluto looks up, sees the eruption over the treetops. The flames reach up towards the sky, where clouds now obstruct the moon. Even from here, safe at the edge of the forest, they can feel the temperature rise, heat prickling their skin like standing front of a bonfire, a step away from certain death.

The other Spiders show no intention to move, either, silently observing the storm. Eventually, the heat fades into a warmth like the last dredges of sun on a summer day, as light bleeds away into darkness. Shalnark is the first to speak. “Well, fuck.”

“Yeah, that sounds about right,” Machi agrees.

***

The room is much too quiet, Feitan thinks to himself. A room with Phinks is never, should never be silent like this. But Phinks is still unconscious, heartbeat faint and breathing shallow. This is definitely not right. Phinks, despite his dealing in death and destruction, was never meant to be still like this, clinging on to the mortal world by threads.

It has been two days. Two days since he called down hellfire to avenge his partner, two days since he incinerated a mile-wide circle of forest to destroy one bug for hurting Phinks, two days since he emerged blank-faced, apathetic, zombie-like from the trees, the scent of ash and burned insect clinging to him like a curse.

The Troupe hadn’t asked him what happened, didn’t need to. Machi had picked up Phinks -- still unconscious, still not moving, still looking too much like a corpse -- effortlessly and looked at him, neither criticizing or pitying, and simply said, “Let’s go back.”

Now, he sits in one of the back rooms of the shack, a simplistic space furnished only with a bed and a chair. Sunlight filters in through the single window, illuminating motes of dust floating in the air and landing on Phinks’s face. He looks so very different like this, hovering between life and death. Feitan can hardly believe that this is the same person that he spent years travelling with, killing with, laughing with, getting drunk off his ass with. 

Unbidden, a night not so far in the past rises to the forefront of his mind, a night that began with blood pooling on a tile floor and shared grins in a darkened museum gallery and ended with a sense of falling, regret tinged with alcoholic haziness and the taste of sunlight on his lips. The air in the room is suddenly stifling. 

He rises to his feet and glides out the door, glancing at the figure on the bed one more time. Phinks hasn’t moved, hasn’t shifted, and Feitan almost does not feel bad for leaving him.

The house is quiet at this time of day, with most of the Spiders preferring to act under the cloak of darkness. Phinks was never like that, a part of his brain whispers. He always favored daylight- he liked seeing his victims and liked them to see him, savored the almost intimate moment of recognition before the light died out of their eyes. 

Feitan slams the wooden door hard enough for the frame to shake, sprinkling dust onto the ground.

He finds himself headed towards the forest, sinister and full of secrets even under sunlight. The trees block out most of the sunlight, with only occasional dappled patches where the branches overhead were sparse. It is still oddly silent -- there is no birdsong or insect buzzing here. 

He finds himself at the clearing where the seven of them had gathered, the last place he had seen Phinks whole and uninjured and full of life, excitement, the thrill of the hunt. Lingering in the space is painful, he finds, so he dives immediately back into the foliage, this time to the left. 

Feitan finds the first Ant not much later. It is surprisingly uninjured, although its striped fur is singed and stinks of ash, and it looks up at him in bewilderment. “Hey,” it starts, beady eyes narrowing. “Aren’t you-”

He never finds out what he is supposed to be, because a split second later its head is flying through the air to hit a tree with a wet thump. The decapitated body falls to the ground, mangled neck spurting blue blood in regular gushes. The head stares at him from the base of a tree, empty eyes unseeing and blank. Maybe he shouldn’t have done that. It could have had information about its fellows. 

The forest, he finds, is still heavily populated with Chimera Ants. This he learns from the next one he encounters, as he slowly carves it apart, taking care to keep it alive but just barely. When he finally leaves the mauled body scattered across the soft carpet of fallen leaves and dirt, he knows that yes, there were still Ants in the forest, no, their leaders were both dead, and that yes, Ants did have a consciousness beyond serving their leaders. Admittedly, the Ant did not directly tell him (or rather, wail through unbearable pain) the last fact, but the way that it begged for its life as it lay bleeding out from countless cuts and slashes revealed it quite clearly.

This makes hunting them and slowly killing them so much more enjoyable. Feitan has never been able to find the same delight in beings that did not wish to live. The pathetic creatures inhabiting Zazan’s dump of a castle were merely boring, a ritual and monotonous task to complete. The Ants plead for mercy, swear that they will never touch another human, but he does not care. 

The moon watches from its vantage point among the stars as he finally silences the weeping of his sixth victim. He wipes his blade on the corpse -- it doesn’t do much good, soaked as both the sword and the Ant are in blood -- and sheathes it in his umbrella.

The weight of what awaits him back at base -- Phinks’s condition, Machi’s constant subtle challenges, Nobunaga’s generally irritating personality -- settles back on his shoulders as he wanders through the forest. But he can’t just escape, vanish to do another job like he and Phinks and maybe Shalnark would otherwise. He has responsibilities now; a group of Nen users of their caliber would fall apart, dissolve into constant clashes and bloodshed without sufficient force holding them together. 

The shack is once again almost lightless when he returns. Through the wooden walls, he can hear hushed voices, but he does not bother to pick them out. He opens the door and enters silently, but he does not go unnoticed. Machi and Shizuku look up from the kitchen, conversation abruptly ceasing. Shizuku is sitting on the counter like an oversized cat and Machi leans against the sink. Neither of them look over, but he can feel two pairs of eyes tracking him as he disappears into the hallway.

He opens the door to the room they assigned him, a twin to Phinks’s and presumably every other bedroom in the house. It is conveniently located adjacent to the kitchen, so he leans against the wall and listens for Machi and Shizuku’s voices.

“-don’t think he’s doing well,” he hears Shizuku say. “He’s not coping at all, is the problem.”

Machi snorts a humorless laugh. “How typical of him. Shalnark never was one for negativity.”

Shizuku murmurs agreement. “For all he knows about people, he never seems to understand that he’s human, too.”

“Well, it’s easy to develop a god complex when you literally use mind control,” Machi deadpans. “Although, we all have something of a god complex.”

“But not since Yorkshin.” For a moment, a silence hangs in the air like nuclear fallout, cancerous and choking and heavy enough that Feitan can sense it a room away.

“How’s Nobunaga doing?” Shizuku ventures after a pause. 

“Well,” Machi hesitates for a second, “he’s moving on, but I doubt he’ll really be okay for a long time. I sat him down and we talked a bit, remembered Uvo.”

“That isn’t a bad idea. Why didn’t we all do that?”

“Greed Island. We started the game right after Chrollo left,” Machi says, voice laced with fine amusement.

“What? I don’t remember that,” Shizuku says, characteristically confused, and Feitan is reminded of how normal the rest of them are, how they don’t have a partner holding the hand of the psychopomp, undecided as to whether to leave the mortal plane or to stay.

“I can assure you it happened,” Machi asserts, and both women laugh.

“And you?” Shizuku hazards. “You lost someone, too.” Machi does not reply. “You’re human, too, and Paku was important,” Shizuku continues.

Another couple seconds pass, and Machi sighs, a sound of loss and regret and pain. “I miss her,” she confesses. Feitan nearly does a double take at the raw vulnerability in her usually icy voice. “She was my oldest friend, you know.”

“I could see that. Tell me about her,” Shizuku prompts, gently.

“She was- she was such an amazing person. I didn’t know there were people like that in Meteor City, people that loyal and kind and still powerful. She died for the Spider -- for Chrollo -- but sometimes I wish she hadn’t.” Machi takes a deep breath. “Especially after Jernigan. Were you there?”

“I don’t think I was. When was that?”

“It was last January. Anyways, after that we were… something more. And it wasn’t just sex, like usual.” Another sigh. “Those months felt like a dream, but I think we both knew it couldn’t last.” There is a whisper of fabric, like someone straightening from a relaxed position. “Well. I’ll get over it,” Machi says.

Shizuku hums, a note of disbelief tinging the tone. “Let yourself grieve. As losses go, ours were heavy in Yorkshin,” she says, bluntly but not unkindly. 

Careful footsteps pause on the way out of the kitchen. A few seconds pass, and Machi’s voice rings out, quietly. “Thank you, Shizuku. Good night.”

***

Nightfall sees Feitan in the woods again, in a desperate endeavor to take his mind off things (and by things he means Phinks, but he will not let himself acknowledge this). There are fewer Chimera Ants to be found, and he has competition. A couple hours after midnight, he finds Machi, pink hair turned to shimmering silver in the moonlight. Her nearly ethereal appearance contrasts starkly with the hideous, wart-covered creature entangled in her web of threads.

The Ant croaks out a strangled noise that might have been a plea for life. Machi mutters, “Shut the fuck up,” and pulls the thread taut. The Ant bulges, then explodes with a sound like overripe fruit thrown at a wall.

Machi leaps clear of the mess of blood and guts and chunks of flesh and lands cleanly in front of Feitan. “Fancy seeing you here,” she greets, voice cool and containing no trace of last night’s emotion.

“Hello, Machi,” Feitan returns. 

She watches him for a second, blue eyes unreadable, before turning to face the forest again, poised to dive back into the underbrush. “Well?” she calls over her shoulder. “Are we doing this?”

Feitan tries to hide his momentary surprise -- what does Machi gain by working with him on such a simple extermination task? -- before taking a step forwards. He trusts Machi; he’s worked with her for years. He will not risk dissent among his allies over something as simple as the title of interim boss.

Working with Machi is not like working with Phinks, he is reminded as the carapaced, winged creature they encounter not much later falls to the ground in a mess of limbs and pieces. It had spread its dusky, moth-like wings when it saw them, intent on escape, but it was far, far too slow. Before it could flap them once, Machi’s threads were wrapped around its neck and Feitan’s sword at the chinks in its armor. She had lifted the Ant into the air, a grotesque mockery of a puppeteer, and Feitan had butchered it, silently, efficiently, before understanding dawned in its compound eyes.

Machi is finesse where Phinks is brutality, and they are as similar as a razor and a warhammer. Still, they fall into a pattern of competition and support easily, Machi incapacitating and sometimes killing Ants with her threads if Feitan wasn’t fast enough landing a final blow. 

Eventually, they find a clearing and stop, not so much for a break as out of boredom. Ants are becoming increasingly rare, and they have already cleansed a large portion of the forest. Machi leaps onto a low-hanging tree branch with ease, and Feitan joins her in an adjacent tree. 

“So what is it like?” Machi asks, after a pause. 

He isn’t sure he understands. “What is what like?”

“Being boss.”

Feitan takes a moment to consider. He really hasn’t had time to think about it, with everything that’s happened over the last week. “Not much different,” he says.

Machi, predictably, does not seemed surprised. “I thought as much. We’re all just waiting for Chrollo, aren’t we?” Feitan murmurs assent, and she continues. “There must be at least a sense of responsibility for the rest of us, though.”

Feitan makes eye contact with her, lifts an eyebrow. She might be a good liar, but it takes one to know one. “You want me to talk about Phinks,” he states, not accusatory.

She does not deny it. “Yes. I suppose I’m curious.”

He laughs, a noise that sounds false to even his own ears. “What is there to talk about?”

Machi pins him with a look, disbelief and exasperation evident. “Your partner of almost fifteen years is about to die, and you don’t think there’s anything to say.” When Feitan remains silent, her voice softens. “I won’t force you to talk. But you should consider it, or else you might regret it.” He doesn’t miss the bittersweet note in her voice.

He adamantly does not respond, and they sit in silence, although he can feel her observing him. The sky soon begins to lighten, streaks of pastel slicing through the deep blue. He remembers another night not so long ago, watching sunrise from the shadowed corner of a partially-collapsed shell and observing his companions, together and alive and familiar. 

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” Machi says, glancing at the lightening sky. “If you decide that you do want to talk, you know where to find me.” She descends from the tree, landing lightly on the compacted leaves. The forest swallows her form in a matter of seconds, obnoxiously bright white and pink disappearing into cool green. 

Machi had called Pakunoda her friend last night. He knew they had been working together almost as long as he and Phinks have, knew that they were definitely lovers in the last few months, but friend was not a label he would have anticipated. It brings up an uncomfortable question -- if Machi, another Transmuter, someone so like him, with a demeanor like an iceberg, cold and harsh and unrelenting, calls other Spiders friends, why doesn’t he?

Friends make you weak, a sibilant voice in his mind whispers, the part trained in solitude and seclusion and independence. He’s never challenged it before, but now he reconsiders. Machi had said that Uvo was always stronger when protecting someone. He’d scoffed at the notion, but now he realizes that she was right. 

Maybe he is the same way. He recalls the roaring pain in his chest, the feeling of his other half of years, his best friend -- the words still feel alien, new, but certainly not wrong -- being ripped away and the aura he was able to manifest because of it. 

And now, he admits, it isn’t the same without Phinks. He’s fought alongside Machi plenty of times, and she is one of the closest replacements possible. But it was nowhere near his partnership with Phinks, and he realizes: he misses it, misses Phinks and his blunt assholery, his hopelessly brutal nature, their jokingly insulting banter, his weird amount of body heat -- 

Finally, he allows himself to remember. A deserted factory district, hulking giants of buildings looming over them like guardians or possibly mammoth aggressors, a sliver of moon casting its silvery light onto wide, empty streets. Warm lips pressed to his, the taste of alcohol and burning sunlight, and then the absence of warmth, cold night air rushing in to fill an infinitely wide chasm. He’d enjoyed that moment, enjoyed being closer than Phinks than ever before and sharing breath, heat, life. 

Feitan forces himself to consider it rationally. The one lesson his junkyard of a home had taught him was that solitude is strength, that attachments resulted in vulnerabilities, that affection could be used to destroy. Friends, allies were acceptable, but never permanent lovers. The Spider as a whole might be stronger than each individual leg, but it could never let the safety of one ruin the rest. His place as boss, even interim, is to keep the Troupe together at any cost. 

The answer is obvious. He will not gamble away the Spider’s life on one mistaken kiss, especially when Phinks doesn’t even remember it. When -- no, if -- Phinks wakes up, he will keep his distance and maintain their friendship as is, no matter what he wants. Resolved, he leaps down from the tree and sets out for base.

He can’t help but wonder if this is what Machi intended. 

***

He manages to avoid Machi’s constant meddling for a couple days by returning to the shack only when he can’t feel her presence. The woods run low on prey, however, with the remaining Chimera Ants either torn to shreds by his hand or fled to less dangerous ground. 

Machi finds him on the third day. He is perched in a tree, again, this time with the mangled carcass of the only Ant he’d found in hours cooling at the base. Their work here was almost done, and there was no reason not to enjoy himself. The screams of the creature being torn apart, slice by methodical slice, had been muffled by the heavy undergrowth. 

She delicately picks her way around the splatters of blood spotting the ground and stops at the bottom of the tree. Feitan acknowledges her, tilting his head to watch her, and she announces without preamble, “Phinks is awake and not dead.”

Shock bubbles to life in his chest, and he tries not to show it on his face. Phinks was awake. His partner was not dead. 

“Make of that what you will,” she continues. If she noticed his surprise, she hides it well. When he doesn’t reply, she turns to leave.

“Machi,” he calls. She stops and faces him again, one hand on her hip, expectant. “Why would you come find me to tell me that?”

She raises one perfect eyebrow. “Maybe because I want you to finally get your shit together.”

“What shit is there to get together?”

Machi exhales, a quick sound shot through with frustration. “Stop pretending you don’t know.” This time, when she turns to leave, she doesn’t stop.

Feitan has no idea what she means. Hasn’t she already gotten what she wanted, by forcing him to make the decision that would benefit the Troupe? Anyways, there’s no way she would know what happened in Bennu.

As much as he wants to see Phinks again, confirm that he is both awake and alive, he needs to keep his distance. He cannot, will not go running to Phinks’s side like a lost dog returning to its owner. 

Uneasiness lingers in his mind, gravity resistant to any attempt at defiance. He does his best to ignore it, but the pull refuses to disappear. 

***

It is two days before Phinks finds him. Feitan stands at edge of the section of forest he burned away. The bare, ash-dusted clearing shows no sign of life or color. In some places, smoke still rises from the ground, climbing steadily towards the night sky in translucent swirls. 

Feitan feels his partner’s presence before he turns around to look at him. He weighs his options; he could reach the treeline and disappear before Phinks reaches him. But that would just be putting off the inevitable -- he can’t avoid Phinks forever. Before he can change his mind, he turns, faces his best friend for the first time in over a week. 

Phinks looks virtually the same. He is a bit paler than before, tanned skin faded from days of little sunlight and no movement, but the sharp eyes and disgruntled expression on august features are the same. Feitan isn’t sure what he expected, but a different perspective of Phinks is the last thing he wants. 

They stand there, silent, for a moment, the hooting, rustling, chirping sounds of the forest muted in the background. Now, without the threat of Ants, the nightlife has returned in full force. The blast zone remains dead, however, even the dirt charred and dried and nearly unrecognizable.

Finally, Phinks shatters the silence. “Two days,” he says, deceptively calm, and when Feitan doesn’t reply he continues, “I woke up from the dead two days ago, and you’re still out fucking around in the woods.” And, with a jolt like electric shock, Feitan realizes that Phinks is angry, angry with him for not caring.

“My apologies,” he starts, stiffly, quietly. “I didn’t know you wanted to see me.”

“Bullshit,” Phinks snarls. “We’ve been friends for years, and you still don’t give enough of a fuck to at least drop by. Even a ‘hello, how are you, glad you’re not dead’ would have been nice.”

“It would have been unbecoming.”

Phinks snorts, disdainful. “That sure as hell isn’t what you thought that night in Bennu.”

Feitan freezes. “What do you mean?” he asks, careful not to alert Phinks to what happened. It would be best if both of them forgot it, and he wasn’t about to stir memories back to the surface, dispelling the balance hanging between them. 

Phinks does it instead, splintering the delicate equilibrium into countless infinitesimal shards like his ability blasting through a mirror. “You haven’t been able to lie to me in years. Don’t pretend you don’t remember making out in front of a dump of a warehouse.”

Fuck. “I do remember,” Feitan begins, then regrets it -- he shouldn’t have let even that slip. “It shouldn’t have happened.”

“That sure as hell isn’t what you thought when you had your tongue in my mouth and didn’t do anything about it,” Phinks says, stepping closer. Feitan can see the annoyance and frustration emblazoned his features, but his face is still perfectly structured, aristocratic and regal and proud. 

Feitan feels his face heat up and desperately tries to hide it. “We were drunk,” he tries. “Besides, I have responsibilities now.”

A snort of derision -- no, disbelief -- from his partner. “We’ve always had responsibilities. Since when has that stopped us from doing anything? Besides, Chrollo will be back soon.” When Feitan doesn’t say anything, he continues.“What I’m asking you here is, how much do you care, really?”

The question takes Feitan by surprise, an icy spear plunging into his chest and lingering. He knows that he never wants to risk Phinks leaving him or dying; it would hurt far too much. And he realizes: no amount of resolve will be enough to force him away from Phinks. They’ve been together for too long, he cannot lose his other half, the light to his shadow, ever again. 

No matter what his rationality or the values he’s held close to his chest like a lifeline say, he does care. A lot.

He only realizes that he has not said anything for several long beats when Phinks turns to leave, disappointment hanging in the air like a noxious smog. The sensation is nearly suffocating, and Feitan can’t do this. He will not let it end like this.

This time, it’s Feitan who stops Phinks with a hand on his arm, and Phinks is still so warm under his palm, burning with sunfire and starlight and incandescence. He reaches up and Phinks leans down and their lips meet again and it is every bit as mind-blowing as last time. 

There is no bitter taint of alcohol now, but Phinks still tastes like cinnamon and smoke and amber. One of Feitan’s arms winds up hooked around Phinks’s neck, dragging them impossibly close together, and Phinks’s hands are on Feitan’s back, patches of warmth in the crisp night air. He allows himself relax into his partner’s touch -- they are in no hurry this time, and both of them recognize it, taking their time and dragging the moment out. 

When they finally break apart, neither of them turn and disappear. Instead, Feitan twines his fingers through Phinks’s much larger ones and pulls him to the edge of the clearing. Phinks takes a seat where the scorched earth blends back into the forest’s vitality, and Feitan joins him, leaning back and savoring his best friend’s warmth pressed against his back. 

A sliver of silvery moon is visible through the gap in the treetops, the hole Feitan blasted through the trees for Phinks. It is the same moon that watched when they kissed for the first time, when Feitan obliterated an Ant because it dared hurt Phinks. It is the same moon that will watch them forever, no matter what they do from here on out.

Feitan has no idea what the future holds, and he is certain Phinks doesn’t either. They could die come tomorrow morning, but at least they have now. He finally understands Machi and Pakunoda and why they would even attempt a relationship when it could be ripped away, shattered like an illusion in a mirror at any moment. Even if he and Phinks can’t have eternity, they can sure as hell chase it until either it or they give in.

Yes, he thinks as he nestles further into Phinks, the two of them will do exactly that.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there is now art! It doesn't matter when you read it, I'm definitely still overly excited about it.  
> [Here](http://rouvere.tumblr.com/post/145715854829/for-the-hxh-bb-some-scenes-from-kuminiakiras) are the ones by rouvere, whom I admire very much! They are lovely, as expected. 
> 
> Thanks again for reading, friend! Visit me on tumblr at [toramurakumo.tumblr.com](toramurakumo.tumblr.com) for memes and anime and other such delightful things ^^


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